11:00
by ironyaficionado
Summary: The Eleventh Doctor finds himself tied up in quite the predicament, and the clock is ticking.
1. 11:00

This is my first piece of fanfic EVER, so I'm not sure how I did. Enjoy!

The warehouse stunk like the rotting serpentine tunnels of the Silurian caves to the Eleventh Doctor, who sat strapped to an old desk chair. The wood was sturdy enough to handle his physical attempts at becoming free and the ties were well made, despite the Time Lord's extensive knowledge of intergalactic neon rope knots as well as those of the typical American Ranger Scout handbook, 275th edition. He shook his head and closed his eyes, his browless forehead crinkling with frustration. "First the Pandorica...and now...a variation on the fireman's chair knot? But that's been around for decades now!" He wiggled his hands a bit more but to no avail. "Doesn't it mean it's not a good one."

There was very little he could see beyond the aura of a single light dangling from the ceiling. He did manage to spy a wall with a different looking electrical outlet affixed. "America! Right, now we're getting somewhere!" He began sniffing at the air. His fashionable wingtip shoes pressed at the ground to try and gain him some kind of height advantage on the scent. "This warehouse isn't that old...2010 or so. I get tied down twice in the same year." In the back of his mind, a Captain Jack Harkness joke faded in and out. He briefly smiled and spoke out loud, "But the last time, there were Daleks, Silurians, Cybermen, Sontarans, Sycorax...what is there now?"

The darkness around him kept its peace.

"Okay, not one for a conversation. Maybe setting us up will help: we are in a warehouse in America..." A pause for another sniff. "...Western coast is likely, given the lack of relative humidity but tinge of ocean-rusted air pollution. Given how dark it is through the corner windows, I'd say it's nearly midnight. A little past bedtime? That's okay. Nothing wrong with a bit of telly to lull you back. Or a good book. Are you a fan of-?"

"Shut up," the darkness spoke.

"Okay, now we have Californian, near middle age, male, and very tired. How long have you been working?"

"That's not important right now."

"My name is The Doctor. I can help you with whatever you need right now, but you have to trust me and let me go."

A small sound emerged from the darkness. A small black plastic square slid across the floor to just under The Doctor's feet. "And this is your prescription pad? Why are you carrying a blank piece of paper?"

The Doctor smiled a bit, chuckling through his teeth, "Psychic paper doesn't work on you? You must be brilliant. I don't want anything but to help the human race and help time progress naturally."

The darkness scoffed and the sound of a squeal let The Doctor know another chair had been pushed out of the way. Steps echoed, coming closer and closer with every syllable spoken.

"You make it sound like you're from space, but what I need right now are answers. You mysteriously showed up outside of the headquarters in an antique telephone box. We bring you down with enough sodium pentathol and tranquilizers to knock out three men. You carry this strange device that we've sent to the labs for analysis. You speak absolute nonsense and expect me to trust you?" There was an increasingly angry tone to his lower gravelly voice.

A silhouette was barely visible through the warehouse's shadow. A classically handsome man stood, dressed in typical 21st century casual style. Upon further inspection, his hair stood on the threshold of either being unintentionally styled or perfectly messy. Finally, he began reading a badge that hung off the edge of his jeans pocket.

**C.T.U.**

"10 hours and 56 minutes ago, cars made by Archangel Motors began imploding at random throughout the greater Los Angeles area. There are incendiary bombs planted all over that are linked to a single trigger explosion. Tell me what you know," the agent demanded as he got within inches of The Doctor's face, which had grown to become wide-eyed at the mention of the situation.

"Did you say Archangel? You need to untie me now, we're all in great danger!"

The agent grabbed the Time Lord's bow-tied collar and lifted him off the ground with great immediacy. "WHERE IS THE BOMB?"

10:58...10:59...11:00.


	2. 11:01

11:01

Jack Bauer, an agent for CTU that had been placed in situations no human should ever have to bear over the span of his career, rubbed his weathered hands against his forehead with his eyes closed. Opposite him, a strange man wearing tweed and a bowtie raised his pronounced brow with tied hands twirling in a silent "You get it?" pose. For the Eleventh Doctor, the entire conversation had been deprived of any functionality and had devolved into an awkward game of charades.

With hands clapped on his knees, Jack rose from his chair and walked in a pacing circle. "Your name is simply...The Doctor. You're here because this Master is orchestrating something through the Archangel Motor Company that will kill innocent people," he offered cautiously.

"Absolutely," the cheerful Time Lord replied.

Jack shook his head and dragged his face through his hands like an automated car wash. He bent forward and looked into the strange man's eyes. "I am a human polygraph. I can tell when people are telling me the truth and when people deserve to lose a finger," he rasped quietly. He flicked open a large butterfly knife from a hip pocket and held it in plain sight.

Instantly, The Doctor's eyes widened even further and repeated, "Please, I am The Doctor! I have to help you save these people. I don't want to hurt anyone."

Jack watched him with great intensity and shook his head as The Doctor recited the same words he had been telling the CTU agent for quite some time. Finally, The Doctor paused with gritted teeth as he anticipated further hostility from Bauer.

Surprisingly, the ropes around his hands and back were suddenly loose and free of tension. He breathed a sigh of relief as he shrugged off all the restrictions and stood up. He shook his limbs, explaining, "Much better. That rope is not comfy." Jack looked at him with a stern look of confusion. "Neither is the chair."

Jack offered a handshake. "CTU Special Agent Jack Bauer."

The Doctor smiled and excitedly shook his hand. "The Doctor. Just...The Doctor. Right, we have to get down to work. But there's something wrong, something missing." He felt around his coat, raising the lapels and looking behind as though someone were hiding in the folds. He raised both flaps of his coat and let them flop to his sides. Looking down, he picked up the psychic paper and tucked it away. "Two things to be precise."

He gestured with his hands in front of his chest. "Suspenders?" he asked politely.

"Those were put away in case of an attempted escape or suicide," Jack said while offering them back to The Doctor. Throwing his coat aside and strapping them back into place, he bore a quick smile as though he had found a long lost friend. "There were questions about the bow-tie as well."

"And why not? Bow-ties are cool," The Doctor boasted. "And the screwdriver?" he asked while extending a hand to his side. He was so busy surveying his surroundings that he didn't see Jack shaking his head.

"It had to be taken back to CTU headquarters for analysis. Its design suggested it had the capabilities to be a dangerous weapon if not a detonator. Standard protocol," Jack said as though The Doctor should have already known.

"Alright then, no problem. We'll get it back soon," THe Doctor smiled and patted Jack on the back. "There was something else, too. I can't seem to remember what it was."

At that moment, a phone ring had erupted through the quiet of the warehouse. It startled The Doctor a bit, but only for him to take notice. Jack quickly pressed his hand to his ear and responded, "Jack here."

He listened intently as he turned away. A sound of shock tinted his voice, "What?" From what The Doctor could still hear, there was a woman on the other end whose voice was sarcastic but still worried. "Damn it," the agent whispered to himself.

"Thanks," he said quickly, before placing his hand to his ear again to turn off the piece. He turned back to The Doctor and walked past him, "Come with me. Another Archangel exploded five minutes ago."

The Doctor took a second to shake off the shock of everything happening around him before trotting to catch up with Jack. "Geronimo," he said excitedly.

"Control, we have activity!" an outfitted soldier shouted into his radio. He was backed up by several other guards, all armed to the teeth like him. Each man raised their compact machine guns to the doors of the police box. The flicks of safeties all happened simultaneously while the left door swung open and a beautiful red-haired girl strode out of the box with her eyes closed and her hands raised in a surrendering fashion.

"Yes, I know I'm ruining everything and destroying time and space," she said sarcastically through an equally thick Scottish accent, "But you can't expect to leave me in the TARDIS for hours on end and not even give a call." The guards by the door exchanged glances but focused on aiming their laser sights on the new arrival. The girl turned back to the box and began locking up the door, still oblivious to her surroundings. "Rory might like swimming in the pool, but I was promised a trip to Rio, so I expect to see sandy beaches and sunshine right-"

"CTU, put your hands where we can see them!" the lead soldier barked, stepping forward.

With red hair flailing behind her, she quickly turned around to find a fully armed squadron pointing directly at her torso. With a squeak and blue eyes stretched with fright, she finished, "...now." 


	3. 11:02

**11:02**

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for: the Archangel Penultimate!" she announced, with the excitement of the pushy crowds reflecting in her frameless glasses.

A pulled tarpaulin had never been met with as much wonder and awe. It was something that Katherine had never felt on her own, despite her tremendous accolades in public speaking and diplomacy. It was strange for a woman who had worked in various government press jobs as a damage control extraordinaire to begin her new career selling rare automobiles. Still, between the pay rate and the promise of obtaining one of the new cars, it was hard to turn down Archangel Corporation even with with its phantom appearance.

Her svelte frame suited the presentation, drawing attention to herself while complementing the car's unique structure. She acted as both talking head and arm candy when she waved her way through describing the car's multiple features. She did her best game show hostess impression in describing their grand prize.

"The hand-stitched select leather upholstery, the piece by piece bubinga and rosewood paneling, titanium alloy framing designed by the head of the company and his crew of innovative engineers, and the privilege of being recognized as the new pinnacle of the automotive craft: what more could you ask for?" she offered modestly. It would have disgusted her mother to see all these suckers for the next hot thing shove each other just to gander at a modern day Ark. Flashes from cameras were shooting off so quickly, she thought she was being barraged by automatic gunfire. But, she still knew what to do: smile, wave, and praise. "It seems like the people just can't get enough of this one, even if we've only sold five of these so far."

Instantly, she saw the regret of her day tossing a hand up and leaping to gather some momentary advantage in being noticed. One part of the job that she almost enjoyed was playing catch with a few softball questions on its performance. She managed to avert your glance to the others wanting a moment in the transcript. Her study of the manual and exercise in public speaking made small work of the questions thrown at her (a 0-60 in around 4 seconds despite around the efficiency of its petrol consumption, and no, the balding reporter's wife cannot have one for her birthday in exchange for their house...it wouldn't be worth enough). Her way with candid responses made her a small celebrity among press pits, but there was that tedious hand hopping up and down to get her attention.

"Yes, in the back?" she asked politely.

A small bustle and a middle aged man stepped forward through the crowd to arrive at the front of the podium. "Hello, sorry, Theodore Hunt," he said in a huff before being interrupted by a pleasantly surprised Katherine.

"Of The Absolution. Ladies and gentleman, we have a blogger on our hands. But not only that! He also had provided quite a few stinging critiques on my performance as a press secretary in the governor's office. I'll take your question, but know your reverse psychology isn't working to gain my favor so far," she said poignantly, as though she had planned on attacking his credibility since she brushed her teeth this morning.

"Miss Tan, there have been reports that every person who has bought a Penultimate has disappeared. While it may be for their own safety, skeptical sources say different. Is there anything about these vehicles the public should know about?" he asked quietly while looking up from his worn legal pad and taking off his glasses dramatically.

She gave a polite smile and dispensed the first dose of venom with her eyes peering over the top of her glasses. "Mr. Hunt, I don't know what you're trying to accomplish by implying. You see, I could simply say that the safety rating is through the roof for any car in its class or otherwise, there are enough airbags in it to effectively turn it into a zeppelin, the on-board assistance system is top of the line, the team that worked on location in the London headquarters was made up of German and Japanese automotive pioneers, and this is the first true investment to ever be made by purchasing a six hundred thousand dollar car. It means I can imply everything that everyone is thinking right now, but all I effectively say is: 'If our customer isn't safe, it isn't the car's fault.' Does that answer your question?" she said. The air of victory stung in everyone's eyes but hers, and lips formed "oohs" at the sight of his embarrassment.

She turned back to the crowd to make her final statement, unaware of the fact that a completely secluded and different audience had witnessed her spirited performance.

"The Archangel Corporation wants everyone to be aware of where the dichotomy lies in the automotive business now that the Archangel Penultimate is on the market. If you have kids, get a minivan. If you're trying to impress someone at a reunion, rent a Mercedes or something people are familiar with. If you want the most powerful and luxurious automotive experience money can buy and don't want to waste time with renting or leasing or borrowing...you want to own it, then we'll talk." She held a presence like that of a military general, and the applauding members of the press had found their boosted morale. "Thank you!" she said, shifting suddenly to a breath-taking starlet accepting a well-deserve award. The clapping continued on and on.

In a loft outside of Los Angeles, a man sits alone, reclined in an office chair and follows the applause on his computer screen. Hands, hot from rolling against each other anxiously, now gripped the armrests as he rose and started his own standing ovation. A cell phone interrupts him.

"Yes?" he answers.

"Thirty seconds after she's done, we have four hundred calls from around the world asking about it. She's a fine-tuned machine, John," the other end boasted. "Mr. Smith, you're going to be a very rich man."

"This is only the beginning."


End file.
